Three Mothers Noah Gray Never Had And One He Did
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Maya; Sylar/Elle; Sylar/Claire. I'm totally lying. This is all about Sylar and the kid.


Originally, this was going to be angsty. And then I found some cookie dough.

**Title**: Three Mothers Noah Gray Never Had (And One He Did)  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Maya; Sylar/Elle; Sylar/Claire  
**Summary**: I'm totally lying. This is all about Sylar and the kid.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x08  
**Word Count**: 2800  
**Notes**: Resorted to this to get the taste of inconsistency out of my mouth. New _9th Wonders_, what.

**_____**

**Maya  
_____**

She shows up on his doorstep approximately nine months and seven days after he's killed her twin brother.

He expects... well. Cursing or crying or maybe a gun pointed at his head?

Not this weird tangle of limbs and blankets.

"Your father helped me find you," she tells him, accent heavier than he remembers, her hair a mess. She leans against the doorway, barely awake. "He cries," she sighs deeply. "Constantly."

Sylar takes a moment to exercise his newfound empathy, then actually bothers to look at the squirming bundle in his arms. "What?"

A soft little sound drifts through the fleece, and then Sylar's ears are basically bleeding. The blanket falls off as he lifts up this weird wailing thing. And then it's probably for the best that Brian Davis has... lent his powers to Sylar, because that's a damn _infant_ Maya just dropped off and telekinesis is definitely useful when you've accidentally dropped things—

"No, wait, stop," he warns, but the kid seems to translate his tone as, "_Cry harder_."

Frantic, Sylar looks around his apartment, the baby suspended awkwardly before him.

"Chupetes," Maya tells him with a jaw-breaking, eye-watering yawn. "Pocket."

He wonders if he could learn Spanish if he killed her, then remembers Alejandro. So, no, that won't work, but he's pretty sure she means pacifiers. Or maybe sleeping pills? Tranquilizers?

Warily, he inches toward her and digs around in her many pockets until his fingers wrap around a handful of pacifiers. One instantly flies across the room and plops itself into the kid's mouth with a soft smack.

Sylar's never felt more relieved.

The wailing stops instantly, replaced by a traumatizing suckling noise. "Maya, what—"

"He is yours," she manages, stumbling over to the nearest couch and keeling over. "And he is hungry, Gabriel."

"What?" he repeats, eyebrows bunched up. "Wait, don't fall asl—"

A soft snore is his only reply.

Slowly, Sylar approaches the kid.

And well, really, all things considered, he thinks, so far, so good—

The pacifier falls out.

Sylar briefly ponders if this kid is special, in the way that supersonic guy was special, then hastily bends to pick up the blanket, wraps it around the little monster, and storms out, rushing to the nearest pharmacy, desperate wails echoing around him.

"No, shh," he tells no one in particular, "it's okay, we're getting food, so just be—wait—stop it—"

Luckily, there's a pharmacy on every corner in New York, so he flies into the first one, making a beeline for the baby section. The kid won't shut up and Sylar's pretty sure he's supposed to be supporting his head or something, but he can only focus on kneeling down and throwing things off the shelves, looking for more efficient ways of shutting the baby up.

"Dude," a passing teenage clerk gasps, "what are you _doing_?"

Sylar looks up from the ground, knee-deep in diapers and baby wipes and rattles, the shrieking kid wedged atop his knees. "Formula. I need it."

The clerk eyes him dubiously, but extends a hand and slowly slides a can towards Sylar. "You'll need a bottle, too."

The baby's still howling, face disconcertingly red, and for a moment, Sylar thinks a bottle of whiskey sounds great. But the clerk probably meant for the baby. And probably not of whiskey.

"I just mix it?" he asks, ripping the lid and foil off.

The clerk scrunches up his face. "Did you, like, steal this baby just now?"

"_I just mix it_?" Sylar repeats dangerously, and the clerk backs up, scooting over to grab some water.

The smell of baby formula makes him gag, but Sylar completes his task valiantly, hurrying to stuff the bottle in the kid's mouth.

Unexpectedly, the screaming stops.

Sylar relaxes, long legs stretching across the pharmacy floor, the baby nestled between his knees.

It's a boy, he thinks, horrified.

Tiny fingers brush against his, sleepily smacking at the bottle.

"Sorry, kid," he grins, angling the emptying bottle. "I've got plenty of abilities. Lactation's not one of them."

It's probably his imagination, but the boy sighs a little, lips sliding off the nipple.

The clerk walks by with a broom. "I didn't call the cops," he announces, "so you better buy some diapers and stuff for this kid."

Surprised, Sylar raises an eyebrow, staring intently at a pair of tiny bare feet. "...for my son."

The clerk rolls his eyes, sweeping the scattered items past Sylar. "Alright, whatever, for your _son_."

Sylar exhales.

**___**

**Elle  
___**

"Think he's got powers?"

"Hope not," Sylar says, troubled. "I don't need him to be special."

Elle nods, bent over the crib at an unnatural angle. "It's been a week," she whines. "Why won't he open his eyes?"

Sylar hums, leaning against the railing he's not supposed to be leaning against. "I thought he—wait, did he just open his eyes?"

Elle pokes her head closer. "No, he's asleep." She glances at Sylar. "He's messing with us."

Sylar grins. "Does it really matter what color his eyes are?"

"Yes!" she explains, absentmindedly running a finger up and down a rail. "I want to see if he looks like me and Daddy or..." she scrunches up her nose, "...your side."

Cocky, Sylar gives a small shrug. "Statistically, my genes are probably more dominant."

With a glare, Elle waves him off. "Probably better if he _doesn't_ look like Daddy, but still."

Secretly, Sylar agrees.

"He's still breathing, right?" she asks, suddenly panicked, bringing her ear to Noah's nose.

"I can hear him," Sylar assures, but brings a finger to Noah's mouth, just to check.

Noah stirs, feet stretching beneath the bindings.

"Did he just smile?"

"Pretty sure that's gas."

Elle sighs, poking Noah's chubby cheek. "C'mon. Open your eyes. Open them. Come on."

Diplomatically, Sylar stretches out an arm and runs his fingers down Elle's side. "Maybe you should sleep for a bit? We need to switch states tomorrow."

She groans, straightening with a grimace. "No more Nebraska," she demands. "Seriously, I'd rather be caught by The Company again."

Sylar grins, ushering her into bed.

Then, quickly, he zips back to the crib, leaning over it at the same unnatural angle.

"Come on," he coaxes, rubbing Noah's fuzzy head. "Open your eyes."

Noah does.

**_____**

**Claire  
_____**

"I feel like we should go on Montel."

Sylar scoffs, palms pressed against Pinehearst's lab window. "Claire—"

She stares through the glass, reluctantly standing next to Sylar, and adds, "Unwed teenage mother of her uncle's baby?" She glances at him with a frown. "Actually, I think I've seen something like that before."

Sylar raises an eyebrow. "I don't think it counts if it's just your DNA."

Claire pokes the glass as though the toddler on the other side can see her. "I guess not."

Impatient, Sylar finally skims a finger down the separator, melting off a clear section.

Together, they step inside the dimly-lit lab, instantly focusing on the kid at the center of the room. His back is turned innocently, and plush toys are strewn everywhere. He's all alone.

Possibly 'cause they've sort of killed everyone on the lower levels.

Claire hesitates, dark hair briefly hiding her face. "...what do we say to him?"

Sylar pauses. " 'Your grandfather thought you would be the catalyst for some crazy '70s formula and Mommy and Daddy didn't know you existed until today?' "

Claire's eyes narrow. " 'Oh, and by the way, your grandfather is also your great-grandfather?' "

They exchange glances.

"Noah," Sylar tries cautiously.

The boy turns quickly, looking suspiciously normal.

Neither Claire nor Sylar move for a long moment.

"Just grab him and let's go," she orders, steeling her features.

He does, hoisting the kid over his shoulder and striding down the corridor.

Claire's on his heels, surreptitiously observing the dangling Noah. "Oh, no," she gasps, making Sylar freeze in his tracks."I think he's got your eyebrows."

Sylar's lips twitch.

"And ears," she grumbles. "What the hell, genetics?"

With a labored grunt, the kid outstretches his hands toward her, kicking Sylar's face in the process. Horrified, Claire steps around them, and hurries to lead the way.

They pack into the elevator in silence.

Carefully, Sylar lowers Noah to the ground, and his little hands immediately fly to Claire's leg, wrapping around her knee.

Offended, Sylar glances at her.

She looks composed, but her eyes are oddly bright. "I probably just look less homicidal than you."

A few floors zip by in silence and then: "Oh, come on! How slow is this elevator? I could've walked down by now!"

"Claire," Sylar warns, "I want to be able to see him."

She pauses for a moment, then nonchalantly waves him off. "Knock yourself out."

His eyebrows draw together. "What?"

Blinking, she fixes her eyes on his. "I'm not going to... keep him, Sylar." She makes a face. "We'll take him to Angela and Peter like we're supposed to, and then I'm going back." Unaffected, she adds, "I don't care what you'll do."

Sylar narrows his eyes.

Another few floors crawl by, the muzak warbling in the background.

"He has your nose."

Involuntarily, Claire looks down at Noah, then forces herself to look straight ahead. "Nah, that's all Angela."

A few more floors blink by.

"Sylar. Are you messing with the elevator?"

"Yes."

"Stop it," she growls.

He shrugs. "Simply giving you a few precious moments with your son." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Before you abandon him forever."

Exasperated, she refuses to look at either of them.

So Sylar kneels down, careful to appear non-threatening, and asks, "Can you talk, Noah?"

Noah burrows deeper into Claire's pantleg.

With an irritated scowl, Sylar glances up at her.

She inhales deeply, resigned. "Noah, can you talk?"

"Yes," is the muffled reply.

"Well," Sylar grumbles, "this is entirely unacceptable." He clasps the boy's shoulder, tugging him around. "I'm the _good_ parent, kid."

Claire looks smug as Noah instantly turns away from Sylar. "It's okay, Noah," she offers softly. "Soon, you'll be with people who will love you very much." As an afterthought, she throws in a casual, "And your father."

Sylar stands up, cracking his back. "And your mother."

Claire's head snaps up to glare at him. "How many times do I have to—"

"You've been patting his head since we got on the elevator, Claire."

Startled, she glances at her fingers and the tangles they've made in Noah's hair.

Sylar smiles.

The elevator door opens with a sharp ping.

Noah shivers and tightens his hold, so Claire reluctantly picks him up, testing his weight against her hip."Your father," she tells him conspiratorially, shielding his face from the carnage littering the main floor, "is very messy. You won't be messy like him, will you?"

Eager, Noah hastily shakes his head, arms wrapping firmly around Claire's neck.

They're barely out of the building before: "Let me carry him."

The corner of Claire's mouth tugs upwards. "You can carry him when I leave."

Glowering, Sylar falls into step behind her, eyeing the car parked haphazardly in the middle of the street. "Fine, Claire," he throws after her, standing tall. "Don't say I didn't offer you joint custody. Later. When you change your mind."

She pauses, back rigid.

"Do you really want him to be raised by _me_?" he asks finally, sounding unsure.

She turns slightly to look at him. "Here."

Quietly, she stuffs Noah into Sylar's arms, sparing a glance at the little fingers that seem frozen with fear.

Her lips form a thin line and then she's stalking off toward the car.

"Claire!" Sylar calls out after her, furious.

She ducks into the car, poking her head out of the window. "Just wait here! Go invisible or something."

Confused, Sylar blinks.

"I'll be back in a few," she promises, adding under her breath, "have to buy a damn car seat."

With a small sigh, Noah goes limp and finally looks up at Sylar.

"Nice teamwork, kid," Sylar grins, adjusting his awkward hold on the boy.

It's probably just his imagination, but Sylar can almost swear Noah's smiling.

_____

**Sylar**

_____

"Breakfast!"

Noah pads over to the table, not even remotely tall enough to see what's on it. "Waffles?"

"Waffles," Sylar nods patiently.

Noah makes a face, leaning his elbows on the nearest chair. "We had waffles yesterday, Daddy."

"And you liked them yesterday, didn't you?" Sylar asks, amused.

Sighing, Noah shuffles over and decides to hang off Sylar's apron, staring up with an awfully sorrowful expression, the feet of his pajams dragging on the floor.

Sylar echoes his sigh, leaning against the fridge. "What would you like?"

Noah brightens instantly. "Ice cream."

"You can't have ice cream for breakfast."

With a pout, Noah grabs for Sylar's watch, little fingers clumsily pawing at the straps.

"And you can't move time to skip to lunch," Sylar adds casually.

Noah's bottom lip trembles.

"And you can't cry."

Noah takes a moment to weigh his options, then decides to just sort of stare at the tiles, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves.

Sylar surrenders.

"Okay, buddy," he says, grabbing two spoons, "but only this once, okay?"

Noah purses his lips. "Okay."

Sylar hands him one of the spoons, opening the freezer. "Are you lying, Noah?"

Noah tilts his head. "Yes."

Tub of ice cream in one hand, Sylar raises an eyebrow. "What did we say about lying?"

Impatient, Noah glances between his spoon and the ice cream just out of his reach. "Only okay when you want something."

Sylar tries to bite back a grin, and fails. "No."

Noah is staring at the tub. "I'm sorry."

"Are you lying again?"

"Yes, Daddy."

Beaten, Sylar picks him up by the scruff of his neck, hauling him across the kitchen. "We're going to pretend I won this argument, okay?"

Noah practically inhales the first spoonful, still mid-air, and gives Sylar a beaming smile. "Okay."

Amused, Sylar sits at the table, Noah on his lap, and pokes at the ice cream. "You have to let me win the next one, buddy."

Noah licks his spoon, blinking innocently. "Okay."

Sylar nods, satisfied, but then—

"Hey, Daddy, can we get a puppy?"


End file.
